


My Anxieties Magnify

by jentaro



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, i still don't respect either of these gay men, illegal soft lonely eyes, someone is fucking cranky and gay and it's not me this time, this is very soft and i am mad at myself for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jentaro/pseuds/jentaro
Summary: The entire day had been built up with so much, frankly,stupidanticipation, that now that it is here? Elias can't stand the thought of living through it for even a second.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 42
Kudos: 202





	My Anxieties Magnify

**Author's Note:**

> i guess i can't write anything else anymore except for old awful men being soft, but hopefully all of u theydies and gentlethem out there who read it enjoy! you can catch me on tumblr @ jennyloggins, on main twitter @ somegarbageisok, and on my tma posting twitter @ slimejen if you want to say hi! dedicated to the brave lonely eyes discord crew :solemncowboyemoji:

Elias Bouchard, above all things, is a man who keeps track of dates. His mental calendar is rounded out so very thoroughly with events, with appointments and birthdays and dates of passing for the dearly departed. Holidays. Notable political happenings.

Anniversaries.

Some part of him wants to skip work and skip town with it for the day, maybe head out across the channel and spend the night in France at some private villa or other to have some sort of passable evening on his own, but the anxiety of perhaps missing the chance of… of being let down? Of course, for sure, the chance of being forgotten about entirely, made him positively dread this day. It’s too much to consider that in any scenario he would not be spending the evening alone, because to get his hopes up that the day would not be forgotten? For some reason, Elias cannot bear the thought, even knowing who his husband is. 

_Ex_ -husband.

Either way, he would rather not overthink it, and he would rather not try to use the Eye to find him. There is hardly a point to it now that the day is here.

An irritating thought to wake up to, alarm still blaring; what a horrible little invention, the alarm clock. Clocks in general, an annoyance, but the alarm clock itself had a special place in hell reserved just for it. The first patent was filed in the year 1847 by French inventor Antoine Redier, and then produced in large quantities. For a blessed amount of time from spring of 1942 through November of ‘44, the shortage of adjustable alarm clocks should have brought an end to the damned things, but then came the radio alarm clock. Clocks with digital displays. Clocks on your phone, customizable to whatever song one wanted to play to wake up in the mornings.

Time ticking down since the dawn of time itself. Thirteen point seven seven two billion years, trickling through the hour glass that is the expanding universe. One grain of sand at a time, one second at a time. 

_Twenty_ years.

Getting up out of bed is an exhausting feat in itself, as is finally deciding not to hole up from the moment his eyes opened. Staring at the clock, boring holes into the digital display and willing himself to black out for the next 24 hours, Elias resigns himself to getting up and going for the shower. His morning routine the same as it ever is, except for the use of the good shampoo that has a pleasant scent that lingers just a little longer than necessary. And _perhaps_ the body wash that leaves his skin just a touch softer. Maybe he uses a bit of lotion too since the winter has been unusually dry for London, and his skin has suffered. 

His suit has been picked out for weeks, though, Elias would never admit it out loud that he planned that far in advance. The cufflinks are a gift from his third divorce, a trinket to soften the papers being served—but, they go well with his tie, a gift from his _fifth_ marriage of course. His good shoes have been shined for days, everything has been prepared impeccably, and yet the cold feeling of pure dread settles into Elias’ bones so deeply and intensively that it nearly makes him _angry_ to even passively admit he cares enough to be _disappointed_.

The day itself is dreary enough, but it is missing the _bite_ that he would expect if… 

A thought that Elias cuts off since it does him no good to dwell; the usual walk from his flat to the Institute takes a bit longer than normal, regardless. There are more people out than normal for this time of day at this time of year to start with, another disappointment since usually the crowd would be much thinner under the influence of…

Well, never mind. 

The drizzle of the rain is fresh, the worn down slick brickwork of the sidewalk threatening to trip him up more than once where it had gone uneven. It is inconvenient to stumble into another person, especially one that profusely apologizes to him even though Elias is the one that lost his footing. Unfortunate that Elias is feeling _quite_ nasty today, implanting the most embarrassing moment of secondary right into the forefront of this stranger—Terry Wentworth, is his name—’s thoughts. The man immediately ducks away in _superb_ confusion to be so thoroughly reliving the time he thought his fart would be silent in the middle of a lesson but it was loud and _very_ drawn out. He had been mercilessly tormented by his peers for _months_ afterward, and Elias takes a certain pleasure in putting Terry through the memory.

Work has already started for many people, or perhaps never finished from the night before for others. It is a fond thought for only a moment before he curdles again, greeting the receptionist before he heads up to his office. Everyone is doing what they should be around the institute, though, Jon has fallen asleep on his desk for the third time in a week, and Tim is, also for the third time this week, chatting up a student researcher. Still, Elias keeps his eyes open, watching. Selfishly waiting. 

There is an absolutely massive amount of paperwork that needs to be reviewed that gets pushed around his desk. Budget figures for the next quarter, court summons for very minor things that he needs to forward to the Institute attorney for review, some stray invoices that reached his desk instead of Accounts Receivable, scheduling for the next month with PTO to review, amongst other things. None of it is anything that Elias gives the faintest _fuck_ about, to put it lightly. Not today, and not with the cold grip of anxiety for his unfortunate pining pushing through his veins. 

It’s preposterous to waste so much time mentally pacing over his expectations for the latter part of this day. Telling himself to stop focusing on it yields to physically walking around in his office as he ‘tidies up’, because Elias is _not_ so pathetic as to actually _pace_ over this. So he finishes rearranging knick knacks and he moves Barnabas’ skull’s location once again to somewhere even more delightfully ominous if one were to find him with their eyes, sitting back down feeling a hollow triumph for passing time so uselessly. 

His computer starts acting up around ten, and if he were honest, Elias would throw the thing out of the window if not for the importance of keeping his spreadsheets in perfect form, meticulously updated. Truly, Microsoft Excel has been invaluable to him in terms of keeping his numbers straight. And to be able to color code cells and adjust the heights and widths of the boxes to suit his needs, he distantly wonders how much more he could have done a hundred years ago if he could have been so organized. Created in 1985 and released on the 30th of September for Macintosh computers, then for Windows computers in November of 1987. It incorrectly features February 29th, 1900 as a leap year because of a bug due to the implementation of other software intended to save memory space on the very limited amount that older computers at the time had. Interestingly, December 31st 1899 could also be written as 0 January 1900 and be the same value.

All things he thinks about while he finds the eyes of someone reading the google search page for how to fix the issue he is having with his mouse pointer dragging jiltedly across the screen, bringing huge latency issues. As it turns out, the wireless mouse needs new batteries, and Elias goes out at lunch to grab a pack of AAs along with a meal that goes mostly uneaten for his nerves.

At two, he forces himself to eat the rest of his lunch, determined to not let today go to waste just because he's waiting for something that’s not happening. Though, his pulse races quite dramatically when he walks into his office after an hour spent in artifact storage when his attention is demanded by the supervisor down there for some issue that did not matter today in the slightest, but it kept him busy enough. It is noticeably colder, but a quick check of the thermostat tells him that the heat had been turned off when he had accidentally knocked against it earlier putting his coat on the rack next to the wall.

Absolutely pathetic, waiting around like a schoolgirl after class for a glimpse of her crush.

First of all, Elias is _married_. ...He _was_ married, currently divorced, so he _knows_ nothing is happening. In fact, a quick check of the registrar for the port schedule through the eyes of a passing employee at the office at the docks, The Tundra isn't supposed to be back in England for another three or four weeks. That’s as close as he gets to seeking Peter out before he sighs in frustration and sets his pen down for real this time.

No more paperwork is going to be done today, so Elias calls it early, shutting down his computer and heading out at 4:13pm, locking up his office. On the way out, he gives the receptionist an excuse about some business he has to attend to that ultimately gets him sitting at a posh rooftop lounge knocking back bourbon like his life depends on it. The place used to be a restaurant, now converted into a much more modern space, but it is notable for how Elias had first come here with _him_.

The ambiance is a hair away from what most would consider fun, light jazz playing as people with the money to flaunt it pretended their lives held any semblance of meaning. Three men here are cheating on their wives—Marlon Derringer in the blue suit with a woman younger than his daughter, Asher Poole with a fiery looking young man that he works with and quite often takes to ‘business functions’, and Frederick Bennett in the grey slacks with a black sweater vest with a woman who has plans of getting him to write her into his will provided the divorce sticks and she marries him. Infidelity is _quite_ a common theme for places like this, and the way one of the servers is looking at him almost makes him want to invite him to the restroom if only to participate in the farce. If today had not been the day that it is? Elias may have very well indulged in the urge. After all, it wouldn't be the first time that he's had some fun on the side when Peter is off at sea, knowing his husband has done the same. 

_Ex_ -husband.

The lights are dim enough to compliment the setting sun outside—the light rain had broken and the clouds are mostly gone with it. The sky is more expressive than Elias really feels right now on his third drink, miserable under the orange, warm glow breaking through on an otherwise sour winter evening. With the jet stream fluctuation bringing in a warm front based on the most up to date satellite imagery being analyzed by tonight’s meteorologist newscaster, truly, Elias is starting to feel quite hopeless to be so earnestly wrapped up in his own misery like this. It’s uncharacteristic at best, indicative of his lack of foresight on the variable of _feelings_ affecting his long term goal at worst. 

Twenty _years_.

Twisting his original wedding ring around on his finger, Elias waits to get up to leave until long after the sun has set and the buzz of people on a Thursday night starts getting to him. The bitter twinge of irony is not lost on him that being surrounded by a crowd steadily increasing in numbers in a tastefully decorated bar could make him feel so profoundly _alone_. The unbearable background noise of patrons blending into unintelligible territory as the blur of the night sets in leaves an acrid taste in his mouth, especially knowing that Peter wouldn't be showing up to the spot they had first started their little game. If Peter is choosing to spend this night alone, it is no longer Elias’ concern, though he does feel the burn of humiliation for allowing himself to get wrapped up in his own fantasies of _meaning_. 

Checking his watch is a habit to bring some semblance of normalcy to himself; it’s a little more acceptable to wrinkle his nose at a watch than standing up because he knows the time is 9:07pm and if he pays his tab now, he will be home in time for Geordie Shore. He gives a last thought to sneaking off with the server but ultimately decides to give him a wink as he passes to the exit. He gets a pretty flush in return, but right now Elias is craving only one person who seemingly did not feel the same. 

He’s not _drunk_ , not entirely, but definitely tipsy as he hits the cold air of the night. The moon is bright in the sky, waxing and close to full now, giving off the impression of feeling almost jovial for its eminent completeness. Elias wishes he could say the same for himself, that he isn't wallowing in his own emotional state right now. Bitter disappointment, a bit of anger with a touch of sorrow, and the _awful_ yearning that comes with it. 

It’s a short walk to the building his flat is in, loosening his tie as soon as he hits the elevator. Leaning back against the wall, he decides that he won't let this evening be a complete waste, knowing he has some leftover ice cream in his freezer at least so he can watch his trashy reality television in relative peace and comfort. When the lift opens, he steps out and fishes his keys out of his pocket as he gets to his door, fumbling from the sudden flare of indignity of his own miscalculation about how little Peter thinks of him. He ends up dropping his keys _twice_ , finally opening the door on his third try and shutting it with an angry, rushed out noise in his throat as he locks it.

Kicking his shoes off, he realizes now that drinking so much on essentially an empty stomach may not have been the best choice to make. Heading to the kitchen, he distantly hears the sounds of a nature documentary on the television (left on during the day for the enrichment of his cat), opening the fridge and _immediately_ going through the five stages of grief. The air is knocked out of his lungs for the briefest moment before he actually looks around the house from as many angles as possible, finally seeing Peter curled up with his eyes closed on the couch with the cat purring away on his chest. 

There is a bottle of champagne chilling next to a delicately wrapped pastry box in the fridge, and Elias short circuits for a moment coming to terms with the fact that not only did Peter _remember_ that today is their twentieth original wedding anniversary, but that he also cared enough to celebrate with him in privacy. No posturing, no public stunts to make him angry, nothing inherently needy as to tear his attention away from work or otherwise. It’s enough to make his eyes mist over while he grabs the bottle, a fork, and the box from the fridge, silently making his way over to the living room so he can set them down on the coffee table.

Instead of immediately waking him up, Elias sits on the edge of the couch next to him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. For such a man to not only show up, but _wait_ for him, it makes him feel sentimental. An emotional one hundred and eighty degree spin that has him feeling hopelessly infatuated. How _inconsiderate_ of his ex-husband to make him wait all day for this with no hint whatsoever. 

Peter, his _husband_ , has managed to genuinely _surprise_ him.

By now, Princess Penelope has woken up, stretched, and jumped up onto the back of the couch, allowing Elias to get in closer. He reaches up to Peter’s face, gently cupping his cheek as his heart races. Rubbing his thumb gently across where Peter’s beard stops at bare skin, he takes in all of the details of his face, fine lines of age making his husband more and more handsome every time he sees him. 

Peter wakes up when Elias starts playing gently with his hair, giving him an unguarded smile for a moment before he says, “Was just resting my eyes.” His voice is scratchy, dusted with traces of slumber, and just gravelly enough to go straight to his heart.

“Of _course_ , I never said you weren't,” Elias says as the tender moment gets to be too intense, turning and grabbing the remote so he can put his show on quite suddenly. Behind him, Peter stretches much like a cat, sitting up and turning the lamp on to spare their eyesight from the strain of darkness. 

“I fed Penelope, too. She wouldn't stop screaming when I came in acting like she has never eaten before in her life.” Peter, now sitting upright next to him, reaches for the bottle of champagne to open it. “Should I go get us some glasses then?”

“Right from the bottle is fine.” Standing up for a moment, Elias takes his jacket off finally, tossing it on the matching armchair to his couch, then unbuttoning his waistcoat and doing the same with it. Tie now off, and the first couple of buttons undone on his shirt, he grabs the pastry box and sits down entirely over his husband—Elias’ back is to the arm of the couch, legs bent and draped over Peter who clearly expected this outcome. Horrible, incorrigible. 

Opening the box, inside is a delicate little cake, just enough for two people to share. For how fancy it is, Elias has _no_ problem destroying the perfect swirl of frosting at the top, letting the sweetness of it melt on his tongue before grabbing the now open bottle of champagne and washing it down. 

“You’re home a bit late tonight, something at the office keep you?”

Only his own idiocy had kept him out drinking alone on their anniversary, and he says as much, “I didn't think you would be back for another few weeks according to the port records, so I went out to drink away my sorrows.”

“Did you really think I would forget?” Peter’s tone is teasing, but there is a soft note to it that digs into Elias’ chest. He doesn't respond immediately, instead opting to dig the fork into the cake properly this time and eat it. “I flew home from São Paulo, you know. Not looking forward to going back on a plane either,” he continues with a shudder at the mere thought of flying. He does have a ship to get back to, and unfortunately for him, that would be the quickest way.

Elias though knows just how much effort that must have taken, hopping a last minute flight and being so thoroughly surrounded by _people_ in the most inescapable fashion. Just for _this_ , for _him_. Holding out the fork for him to take, Peter grabs it and takes a bite of the sweet cake while Elias takes another swig of champagne. And they switch off next, handing over the bottle in exchange for the fork and then back again as they watch trashy television.

After a while, Elias has slumped more into the couch while Peter has similarly migrated closer to him, resting a hand on his knee in a most familiar fashion. At some point, Elias has stopped bothering to use the fork, using his fingers because truly? He's now drunk and feeling comfortable, and if Peter has anything to say about it? It isn't vocalized, though at an advert break he sighs dramatically.

“What?”

“How do you _watch_ this? I don't understand your obsession with these young adults making poor decisions,” there's no malice in his words, but he does grab Elias’ wrist and intercepts a piece of cake.

“Get your own!” Elias says, weakly struggling with no intent to break free, snorting when Peter takes a second to stick his tongue out at him. Sucking his own fingers clean when he gets his hand back, Elias squirms into sitting up more to get at the champagne bottle Peter has clutched against his other side. “It’s absolutely fascinating to watch if you take the time to analyze it. Marnie and Aaron are old flames, always breaking up and getting back together. Sam keeps trying to grovel back to Chloe, and she keeps caving even though he's a royal prick.”

“Reminds me of some lads, _can’t_ fathom _who_ though,” Peter says slyly while Elias takes another drink, laughing when he gets an elbow gently to the side. “Oh come on now, you always manage to make our rows interesting.”

“Only because you are the most infuriating person alive,” Elias says, feeling every affectionate feeling possible at the same time. Closing his eyes and leaning on Peter more, he says, “I’m glad you're here, though.”

There is a beat of silence as the noise of the television seems to fade, and he can feel Peter’s breath hitch while looking at him. The moment is intimate, more when he feels Peter’s hand on his cheek, pushing up to card his fingers through Elias’ hair. It makes him sigh, pulse fluttering again at being the center of his husband’s attention for this moment. He can feel the cool weight of a ring on Peter’s finger, and he doesn't have to look to know he'd also worn his half of their original set today. 

With his guard down, he's not sure what to expect right now. A proposal would be fitting for the mood. Or, a kiss would be lovely too, considering they have not seen each other in five months. What he gets is frosting on the tip of his nose, opening his eyes and going cross-eyed attempting to look at the smear. Wrinkling his face a bit, he reaches up to wipe it off, licking the mess from his finger. “That was _rude_ ,” Elias half whines at him, reaching into the box for what’s left of the cake and debating pushing the crumbs into Peter’s beard while he feeds him the mess from his palm. Only a few make it before Peter ducks away with a laugh, the rest falling to their laps, destined to make it to the floor, perhaps.

The box gets closed and tossed onto the table then, and the last of the champagne gets swigged down by Peter, the bottle also getting placed on the table. The show comes back on for the last fifteen minutes, and once the credits are rolling, Elias nearly falls out of Peter’s lap in his quest for the remote so he can turn it all off. The TV goes off before Elias sits up, situating himself instead in Peter’s lap with his legs on either side of his husband’s. 

Peter’s hands slot against his waist while they look at each other, and Elias feels what can only be described as _exposed_. For tonight, Peter holds his heart in his hands, and before he can stop himself, Elias asks, “Will you stay the night with me?”

He doesn't get an answer out loud, Peter instead pulling him down into a kiss he feels to his bones. His pulse is pounding in his ears, heart back to racing joyfully. The lips against his are familiar, the soft scent of salt that permeates his husband hangs around the air, and for a moment, it all feels _right_. To think he could have missed this due to his own poor attitude is absolutely unthinkable now. Of _course_ Peter had come tonight, he always seems to know what arbitrary date Elias holds closest when it actually matters.

They break the kiss when Elias trips himself up and loses his balance in Peter’s lap, snickering into his neck as he hangs onto his husband. “At this rate, I’ll need to be carried to bed.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Elias closes his eyes and watches from somewhere else in the room as Peter lifts him up, groaning dramatically in faux complaint. 

Resting his head against Peter’s shoulder and holding onto his neck, Elias’ head is swimming pleasantly with his feelings for once. It helps that the alcohol has smoothed this encounter along. When he's deposited onto the bed, Peter gets him out of his trousers and his shirt, tucking him into bed before leaving the room. For a cold few minutes, he watches from many eyes as Peter cleans up their mess and shuts the light off, making a pit stop at the bathroom before seeming to weigh the options of how to proceed. Part of him thinks he will leave now, and the other part intimately knows that it is killing Peter to admit his own attachment in this situation.

Elias is not surprised when Peter comes back, shedding most of his clothes before climbing into bed beside him. Elias moves quick, catching his husband off guard by curling into his space, pushing his face into his chest hair and inhaling deep. The comfort of the familiarity that could only come from being with someone for so long, no matter what outside forces demanded he do to manipulate Peter into falling exactly in line where he needs to be. 

The scent of skin, of the sea, of the fog and of emptiness incarnate, intoxicating in its own right. And the scratchy feel of graying chest hair against his cheek is something Elias wants to hold onto, knowing that their game is going to come to an end at some point sooner rather than later. There would not be a happy ending for them, but a deep part of him wants to impart onto Peter just how cherished his presence is. That this is not for nothing, he does care for him in a way that he can't say is the same for anyone else on this planet. 

Marital devotion unfortunately takes a back seat to his spiritual devotion, but for tonight, he will let himself be held. Peter’s arm comes around him, and they don't have to say anything, memorizing each other’s presence as they fall into an easy sleep together.


End file.
